Contradicting Memories
by isumi 'kivic
Summary: When everything goes dark, Yukio remembers Rin. Funny, that when he finally stands in front of everyone, he remembers how happy he was when he stood behind someone. Rin/Yukio, bromance bordering on shounen-ai.


Title: Contradicting Memories

Author: isumi'kivic a.k.a isumi_ilde

Characters/Pairings: Rin, Yukio—bromance, but if you want to see it as incest, I'd be happy. –is bricked-

Warnings: Bromance bordering on shounen-ai, possible OOC-ness (because damn if Yukio wasn't one of the hardest character to understand), switching tenses, un-beta-ed. Also, English isn't my native tongue, so.

Disclaimer: I don't own Ao no Exorcist, and make no money out of this

A/N: First AoEx fic, and Happy birthday, my soulmate Rizuka! xDDDD I'm almost two hour late, but at least I finished this. Once you said you wanted to read a broken!Yukio, and this is the best I managed to do. I'm sorry it's crap. ;A; Yukio is such an enigma to me, I think I could never do him justice. Just how many layers of mask he wears anyway… -shakes head-

Enjoy, please. I'd love to hear what you readers think through reviews. :D

**An Ao no Exorcist Fanfiction**

_Contradicting Memories_

When everything goes dark, Yukio remembers Rin.

He remembers a face brighter than early morning sunrays sneaking into their dorm room: dark eyes with fiery determination, wild tousled hair that spells out freedom, and brash, open laughter like a thousand summer wind chimes. He remembers a voice harsh in quality, yet with a gentle tonality, and thoughtless words that were the only honest things in his world. He remembers the smell of warm homemade kare rice, remembers the rich flavor of spices that floods every corner of his mouth and warms the very core of his being—and he recalls his father's voice saying something about cooking and food and love, and thinks if there isn't any other way to warm him that does not involve his twin's cooking.

He remembers those times when he knew nothing, times when the warmth of his twin was all the only thing he needed to ward off nightmares—of tiny-little-big-huge monsters and roads that never ended and an abyss a deeper color than black. He remembers steady small hands clutching his trembling ones, and how one tiny gesture was all it took to secure his world; those same hands that had punched the hell out of his bullies, those same hands which possessed anomalous strength for a kid who knew no way to control it. The hands that could do everything he couldn't, reached everything he couldn't, and protected everything he couldn't. He remembers happiness, remembers feeling content, remembers the overflowing love and a sense of belonging that he, even now, knows not where it comes from.

Funny, he thinks, that he remembers those happy things now, when his whole being hurt like he was being pierced by a thousand electric needles. Funny, that he remembers how nice it was to be protected, when he had sworn to become strong and protect those important to him. Funny, that when he finally stands in front of everyone, he remembers how happy he was when he stood behind someone.

His being is a contradiction in itself, he thinks, because even with such happy memories, he can hate the next person better than the victims of the Blue Night could hate Satan. He remembers the grave, burning feeling in his chest when his father died and something resembled relief that flooded his chest at the same time. How odd, that two very different feelings could clash in his chest upon one tragedy. How strange, that he could still claim his duty of protecting his twin, when he's so close to cock his gun and aim right at the point between his twin's eyes.

He loves, and he hates. He remembers accusing gods and fate one night for being unfair—because his twins have everything: power, determination, morals, strength, friends, normal childhood (as normal as it could be for someone with the power of Satan sleeping inside his existence, of course)—when he can only want it. He craves for powers stronger than that of Satan, he wants determination as fierce as the blue fire his twins emanates. He hates that even if they're the same age, he's still a teacher and there's always a wall between a teacher and his students, and he wants them to be friends like they are to his twins, but that's impossible, too. He remembers feeling guilty afterwards—he's supposed to protect his twin, and how will he do that if he can't control the burning envy in his chest that makes his breath goes shorter and sharper?

He remembers swallowing anger upon seeing blue flames licking the wind as Rin jumps in to fight, remembers the fear that grips his body when his twin moves out of his range of sight. Exasperation is a feeling he's too familiar with, but he hates the helplessness that comes with it. He hates that Rin just won't stay still, hates that Rin won't let him protect, and hates that Rin just has to be the hero every time. He wants Rin to stop and look—look at _him_, at the world, at _their positions_—wants to make Rin stop taking him as granted, because even if he's his twin, there's no guarantee he won't kill Rin someday, or if he will still be by Rin's side tomorrow.

He wonders, then, why is he remembering how safe it feels to be protected, when he wants desperately to protect?

_I want to protect. I'm scared. I'll protect. But I'm scared. Help. Help me._

His very existence is a contradiction in itself.

And now everything hurts and he wants to open his mouth to scream, to let out the agony wrecking his body, but cannot find the strength to even move a finger. He remembers—the word most often formed on his lips, one that tumbles down in desperation whenever he tries to grope around for a hold and finds _nothing nothing nothing_ and before he knows it he's already falling _down down down_ to the darkest depth of the abyss he fears despite the word still lingers on the corner of his lips, a soundless _niisan niisan niisan_—

Then light floods his vision even with his eyes closed, and he feels numb. He hears a voice: dark and trembling and tight with emotions, calling his name in broken whispers—_Yukio Yukio Yukio come back please please please Yukio Yukio Yukio_. He wants to open his eyes, but he can't remember how. But he remembers how to form that one word, and lets it out in a shuddering breath. It feels like it's clinging on his tongue—the word, that is—and he tries again, and feels something wet falls on his cheeks in droplets.

He feels a trembling hand clutching his limp ones, and remembers when it was his own that trembles. He wants to open his eyes, and tell Rin that he shouldn't do this, shouldn't cry because Yukio isn't doing this for him, because Yukio hates him and Yukio wants to be free like him. But the warmth of the shaky arms that hold him tight is still the same warmth that warded off his nightmares when he was little, and he misses it—misses the feeling of security that comes with it, misses the contentment of being trapped in those arms. His twin is still whispering in his ears, pleads him to stay and open his eyes, but Yukio still can't remember how.

So he says the only word he can remember forming—he can feel his twin tenses, sobs in anguish, and tightens his hold.

_I'm here, I'm here,_ Rin says. _I'm here, you're safe now. I've got you, Yukio. Yukio Yukio Yukio, I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm here now, I'll protect you. Niisan will, promise. Promise. Don't go, don't leave, I can't—_

Then he remembers his twin's trembling hand clutching his own, and with all his strength, he tries to clutch back. Darkness starts to hover around the corner of his vision behind closed eyelids, but his hand moves a little, two fingers now hooked limply between Rin's ring and little fingers. He says the word again; _Niisan_, and hears his twin breaks down completely.

_Ah_, he thinks simply, _I do love him_.

He remembers, again, the feeling of contentment and happiness, and warmth and overflowing love and a sense of belonging he doesn't know where it comes from, and finally embraces the welcoming darkness.

-o0ofinitoo0o-

A/N: Yeah, I wrote an angsty-bordering-on-tragic fic for my soulmate's birthday. I don't even. ;A; I'm sorry, Rizu. But I still have that Sleeping Beauty draft I'm working on, promise.

Constructive criticisms are very much loved, as are enthusiastic reviews. Flames are going to be used for trash. Thank you very much for reading!


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